Saint J., as he is referred to amongst the bartenders, is one of the most negative, unhappy, cynical people I've ever had the displeasure of encountering. I am a proud, card-carrying pessimist, and I started calling myself an optimist after I met him. He spends his time at the bar finding new ways to wax negative, from the people around him to whatever happened in politics that day, in these long, too-edited speeches he's obviously spent a long time crafting. They are rarely funny, but I tend to fake a laugh because sometimes:

St. J was sitting in his usual seat, at the end of the bar, where we go often enough for him to always catch us to say some snarky comment or another, and I told him some girl had just puked on the table outside. Before I could say anything else, he stood up, walked outside, cleaned it up completely, and escorted the girl and her friend outside.

He keeps stacks of $1s, 50 to 100 of them, in his car in case we run out.

He's our most supportive customer, consistently our biggest fan. He will assist the bartenders in any way, from helping us move, as he did for Kristie and offered me, to attending their yoga class, as he did another bartender who quit to become a yoga instructor. He'll show up for every art show, every band, even the really shitty ones, the ones who play just for the bartender and him. He'll applaud, loudly, after every song, even if he's bitching about how terrible they are to me.

He shows up every Sunday for potluck, a decade-long tradition that usually consists of him and the bartender. (When Kristie and I worked Sundays, we would joke about what we were making St. J for dinner.) He stays almost all night, often as the only customer.

He usually drinks nothing but Evian, and tips every drink.

Once, he asked me to come outside when the sky was very clear and there were more stars visible than usual. He pointed to one that was moving, and told me it was the satellite he programmed the coordinates for, or something -- I'm an idiot when it comes to those sorts of things. He's a complete genius.

There's a reason we call him St. J. After all, I don't fake laugh for just anyone.

About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.